Chapter 4 #3
He watched her for a second before inclining his head. “Greetings, lass. I’m glad to see ye on yer feet.” His voice was deep and smooth.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. He had penetrating blue eyes and a mop of strawberry blond curls that hung around his face, damp with sweat. ”I...um...” She swallowed again, suddenly unsure of what she’d come to say. “Are you the chieftain?”
He laughed softly. “I suppose I am. As much as we have one, anyway. I’m Ronan Campbell.”
“I came to say thank you. For rescuing me, I mean.”
A soft smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Ye are most welcome, lass.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Right. Good.”
He waited but Elodie had run out of things to say. She suddenly felt uncomfortable beneath his penetrating gaze.
“Do ye have a name, lass?” he asked.
“What? Oh, yes, of course. I’m Elodie. Elodie MacNeil.”
“MacNeil? Then ye are a long way from home. The MacNeil clan’s holdings are many miles to the south.”
MacNeil Clan? What was he talking about?
“I think there’s been some misunderstanding,” Elodie said carefully. “MacNeil is just my surname.”
Ronan frowned slightly. “Aye. That’s what I said.”
“No, I mean...” She stopped. “Never mind.”
The confusion on his face only deepened, but thankfully he didn’t press. Instead, he crossed to the anvil and set aside the tongs he’d been holding.
“How is yer head?”
“Better.” She touched the lump on her forehead. “Still a bit sore.”
“I’d expect as much. Ye obviously gave it a hard knock.”
Elodie nodded and looked around the smithy again, taking in details she’d missed before. Tools hung neatly from pegs on the walls. Hammers of various sizes. Tongs. Chisels. Files. Along one wall stood a rack filled with tools waiting to be repaired.
Then her gaze snagged on something else.
Several swords hung on the far wall. Unlike the battered farm tools, these were beautiful.
One had an intricately worked cross guard shaped like twisting vines.
Another gleamed silver in the firelight, its blade polished to a mirror finish.
A third looked older, the leather grip worn smooth by years of use.
Swords? Why on earth did he have swords?
“Where are ye from, Elodie MacNeil?” he asked, snapping her from her thoughts. “And what were ye doing out in the wilds?”
The questions caught her off guard. She couldn’t answer the second because, frankly, she had no clue. She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“I...I’m not entirely sure.”
His brow furrowed. “Ye dinna know where ye came from?”
“No. That’s not what I meant. I could answer more clearly if...if I knew exactly where I am right now. What is this place? Where am I?”
He watched her steadily and she remembered Faye refusing to answer the same question.
“Ye are safe,” he replied at last. “We call this place the Steading and it’s a haven for any who seek it. Most here have been made homeless by the unrest over the Articles of Union.”
Articles of Union? Unrest? She didn’t know what he was talking about. And yet Ronan Campbell spoke of them as if she should.
“Articles of Union?” she asked. “What’s that?”
He looked at her suspiciously, as though suspecting her of mocking him. “Ye dinna know? Where have ye been, lass? It’s been the talk of every tavern and market place for years now.”
Elodie swallowed. Had it? If so, she’d somehow managed to miss it.
“The union of Scotland and England’s parliaments?
Ye seriously havenae heard of it? They’ve been discussing it ever since the parliament in Edinburgh over ten years ago.
But now they’ve set up commissioners from both Scotland and England and, as always happens when change comes, people have begun taking sides. It’s been...ugly.”
She had not the first clue what he was talking about. In fact, she felt like she’d landed on another planet. Nothing, absolutely nothing about all this made any kind of sense.
Something began to stir at the back of her mind, something she’d been steadfastly ignoring.
It was the way everything had changed when she’d walked through the arch, as though she’d stumbled through a door.
It was the houses in the village that looked like something out of a period drama with nothing even remotely approaching modern conveniences.
It was the clothes the people wore—the clothes she was now wearing.
It was Ronan working as a blacksmith. It was the way he spoke of things she’d never heard of.
A terrifying possibility fought its way free from the depths of her consciousness no matter how hard she tried to bury it.
Her breathing began to come a little faster. “What...what year is this?” she gasped.
Ronan stared at her. “The year?”
“Yes.”
For several heartbeats he didn’t reply. Then he said slowly, “Sixteen hundred and ninety-nine.”
Something sharp and cold went through Elodie. She laughed, a high, nervous sound that held no humor at all. 1699. No. No way. It couldn’t be. She was obviously losing her mind.
Ronan was watching her carefully whilst the forge crackled softly behind him, casting an orange glow across his face. “Are ye all right, lass?”
Her pulse began to hammer. “No.”
Ronan’s frown deepened. “No?”
“That’s not possible.”
“What isnae possible?”
That sharp, cold feeling was spreading. She clutched her arms around herself to keep from shivering.
No, she repeated to herself. No. But her mind kept putting together the pieces all the same.
The lack of electricity, roads, cars, anything at all she recognized.
A village in the middle of nowhere where the chief worked as a blacksmith. Swords on the wall.
And Irene MacAskill.
Sometimes people are born far from the path they were meant to walk.
Her legs suddenly felt weak. “Oh God.” She swayed slightly.
“Elodie?” Ronan moved towards her and his hand settled lightly on her arm. “What’s wrong?”
The steadiness of his touch somehow kept her upright. She swallowed, forced herself to breathe. It was insane. Utterly insane. How could she even begin to tell him what she suspected?
“I can’t remember,” she blurted.
“What?”
She touched the lump on her forehead. “My thoughts are all muddled. I can’t figure out how I got here.
None of this is making any sense.” This was true, of course.
Her thoughts were fluttering like butterflies, unable to settle.
It was a vague answer, but one she hoped would give her time to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.
His expression softened. “Aye. Such confusion can happen when ye take a blow to the head.”
He believed her. Or at least he wanted to. His touch on her arm tightened. She looked up to find him gazing down at her, light from the forge reflected in his blue eyes.
“Ye are welcome here for as long as ye choose to stay. Like I said, the Steading is a refuge for any who need it.”
She swallowed then nodded weakly. “I...I don’t feel so good,” she muttered. “I think I better go back to Faye’s house and lie down.”
“Do ye need me to accompany ye?”
“No,” she said quickly, waving away his offer. “I’ll be fine. I know the way.”
She turned and all but fled the smithy. As she hurried back through the village, she barely noticed any of it. Her thoughts were racing as fast as her pulse.
1699.
Oh God. No wonder she didn’t recognize anything. No wonder she felt like she’d landed on another planet. Somehow she had traveled through time, which was almost the same thing.
When she reached Faye’s house, she found it empty, with no sign of the healer.
She slipped inside and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
Everything about the room was a reminder of what had happened to her.
The stone fireplace. The beams overhead.
The fire that served as heating and cooker both.
Oh, hell. What was she going to do?
She clasped her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking. Everything had changed when she’d stepped through that arch. Therefore, logically speaking, that was what must have transported her through time. It must be some sort of wormhole or magical portal or doorway or something.
And doorways worked both ways.
Her thoughts began to race. Perhaps all she had to do was walk back through that door and ta da! She’d be back home. The thought calmed her—a little.
She climbed to her feet. She had to be off before she could second guess herself or run into Faye and find herself with some awkward explaining to do.
She slipped out of the door and, keeping to the shadows under the eaves of the houses as much as possible, made her way through the village. She tried to walk confidently, as if she had every right to be there, desperate not to call attention to herself.
It worked. She reached the last of the houses without anyone challenging her and found herself on a narrow path that led first through cultivated vegetable patches and then into woodlands.
After a while the path began to climb steeply, snaking its way up the cliffs that hemmed in the valley, until finally it emerged onto open moorland.
Elodie stopped and looked around. The fading light of dusk revealed a wide, open landscape. A cold wind was blowing, swirling her skirts around her and sending her hair streaming out. There was not a landmark nor another soul in sight, only endless rolling hills covered in heather and coarse grass.
And, of course, she had absolutely no idea where she was.
Part of her knew she was being irrational. She’d been unconscious when Ronan had carried her here and she didn’t know how far they’d traveled nor in which direction. It was beyond reckless to go wandering on her own.